TRANSFORMERS: CYBERTRON SAGA
CHALLENGE OF THE GOBOTS #3: PICK UP THE PUZZLER PIECES.
byline: Anubis C. Soundwave
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I will do a simple Q & A in Fanfiction Format at the end.
"Where do you think you went wrong, Doctor?" asks Cy-Kill curtly, blaming me for their latest fiasco--which I had nothing to do with.
I glare at him from behind my maximum prison cell. The Guardians caught me again on some unrelated business regarding one of my esteemed colleagues early inventions--which I was able to fix and use as a weapon against said do-gooder robots. And the Autobots, for that matter, when they tried to interfere.
But that's another story. This one begins a typical day for me.
I decide to cut my Renegade friend short. "Are you going to kidnap me and add to my consecutive life sentences or not?" I ask in annoyance.
"Not this time, Braxis." I've heard that one before. "You've failed me once too often."
This damned idiot has some nerve! "What the deuce are you talking about?"
"That combiner plan of yours."
"Mine!? I mentioned that an endogestalt similar to the Stunticons may hold the key to defeating your enemies. You're the one who jumped the gun."
"Oh," sneers Cy-Kill with mock incredulity, "so you had nothing to do with implementation." Damn. I suppose I did help that useless black Porsche engineer of theirs do the impossible.
"So I'm to blame for actually finding a way to make your latest stupid plan work." I glare at this idiot. "I warned you from the beginning that you Gobots are wired differently than the Cybertronians; you can't simply create a chipset from scratch!"
"Then why was the Puzzler such a miserable failure!?" thunders Cy-Kill. "We followed your directions to the letter."
"I told you what was wrong with them when they first came online," I spit. "If you want something that will repeat itself, buy a parrot."
Cy-Kill scowls at me. "Good day, Dr. Braxis." He and a rather-snarky Cop-Tur leave. Dr. Go looks at me apologetically, knowing that we both tried to tell his idiot leader the problem.
Crasher remains behind a moment, her optics pleading. "I've...made some arrangements for your departure," she hisses.
Oh, dear: she's not in her usual manic state. It must be her bond with the components. Knowing Cy-Kill.... It's best not to think about it, although clearly she thinks I can somehow help.
I touch her hand to reassure her; she winces.
"Get your mitts off me, you slimeball," Crasher scowls. She leaves, flying back to Thruster, I suppose.
Back to my bunk.